Nursery now gone
Nothing lasts; all goes away.
Ashes in the wind.
Nursery now gone
Nothing lasts; all goes away.
Ashes in the wind.
If the One had an eye, I can nearly imagine what it must be like, because of photography and graphic effects, to zoom, from the unknown firmaments that surround us, onto my doings on this earth. A macro-microscopic zoom. Of course, the One, if possessed of a brain or mind such as I am familiar with or can fathom, would need only to think, “Be,” and whatever thought of would come into BEing.
Whatever could make the One, the Creator of All That Is, directly or indirectly, interested in my doings? The time needed to focus on my shenanigans is unimaginable as the One is timeless and can Do or Not Do, as it wills, if It were possessed of a will as I can conceive of one.
Personallly, I do believe the One is not amused, if indeed the One possesses a sense of humor as I know it. My own sense of humor is pretty whack, but the One and I would likely agree that what passes for reality, the quality of interpersonal and international relations on this earth is troubling, not at all funny. Perhaps this is why horrors persist; the One has left us on our own, abandoned us, and we’re acting out our heartbreak and frustration at this eventuality.
For all the professions of faith, many folks act as if it is the case that the One has abandoned them, left them alone like the devil never did.
Ever met a Morale Officer? It is this officer’s duty to see that the troops are happy or, at the least, not dismally unhappy. To help maintain healthy mental and emotional behaviors while in the midst of struggle, the Morale Officer plans diversions and activities for the troops to help lift the oppression of battle and add a bit of light and levity to an otherwise brutal situation.
Once I quit my man, I discovered I had need of such an officer. It takes time to recover from a romance, no matter how long or short the affair. My man was raising his voice at me, calling me names. He couldn’t kiss me right. One night, he didn’t come home. I had to leave him.
I petted and cossetted that man as if he was a spring lamb, but he was never satisfied with me. He didn’t like the way I dressed (too modest), the way I spoke (to low and like a white girl), the way I ate (too international). He yelled at me to talk like a Black person, otherwise he wouldn’t hear or understand what I was saying. He actually seemed to want me to behave like a street woman. I had to leave him.
Having nearly lost myself, collapsed myself into his world, I needed to get me back. Whenever I feel like I’m losing my sense of self, I head to the library. Reading prevents the loss of self and can often help when regaining self is imperative.
I have to walk 20 minutes to get to a library in the local strip mall. The library doesn’t even have a bathroom for patrons. You have to go to Mickey D’s or Food 4 Less if you need the toilet. But there are books, videos, and free wi-fi, so off I go.
Along the main highway there is plenty of traffic, liquor stores and churches on every other corner, some homes, and many apartment complexes. I wonder how people live with their front doors so close to the sidewalk and pedestrian traffic, how they sleep with the constant traffic noises, how they breathe so near the pollutants of the road.
About midway in my journey, I pass in front of a large apartment complex, in front of which are usually a number of men. They stand around, smoking blunts and cigarettes, pants hanging way below their waists, profanities flying. Often, there is someone who is very high on some substance. They are said to be “on one.” Once, I encountered a brother draped over the trash receptacle that stands in the corner in front of the complex. His pants had fallen to his knees as he leaned his upper body along the side and top of the container. I was returning from the library when I saw him and stopped to ask if he as alright or needed me to call 9-1-1. I stood with him for about 5 minutes before a oouple of men who knew him came from the liquor store across the street and informed me that he was on one and proceeded to help him get himself together. After their arrival, I continued home.
When I pass, I always speak to any man I see. I don’t want a scene and it costs nothing to speak. It’s always, “Good morning/Good afternoon, Brothers.” The first time I did this, there was a visible change in attitude and I was greeted in a like fashion. Then, I began to get compliments. “God sure did bless you. You’re summery and stylish, and you’re pretty, too.” My favorite is,”You’re a real woman!” If the corner men could see my virtues, why couldn’t my man? “If yo man ain’t treatin’ you right, I will!”
They were so good for my morale with their ego-boosting comments. I started going to the library twice a day for a while, just so I could hear something sweet said to me while I worked to get that man out of my system and regain my sense of me.
The Corner Brothers, often high as Coota Brown, eyes red as crimsonite, sagging and looking crazy, became my Morale Officers. In passing, they treat me like a queen, pulling their pants up, saying excuse me, always with the compliments and sweet words like brothers used to use in the ’60s. With their help, and immersing myself in my books, I got that man out of my system, regained my composure, and took back my life.
In the most unlikely locations, among the most unlikey people, it is good to find Morale Officers on duty.
Slight in physical stature, Ruby Dee was larger than life to me. With her husband, Ossie Davis, Ruby Dee was an activist, a fighter for social justice, an active participant in the Civil Rights Movement. I grew up with her. Losing her is quite a devastating blow even though I never knew her personally.
Dee’s acting could be achingly poignant or tongue-in-cheek hilarious. She had interesting diction and could deliver the most wonderful deadpan lines.
I think I loved her most, though, because of her friendship with Br. Malcolm.
I hope all the saints are not resting. I hope they are active, laughing, enjoying wherever they are. That will be the place for me, there with Br. Malcolm, Ossie Davis, Maya Angelou, Yuri, Lena Horne, Beah Richards, Rosalind Cash, Madge Sinclair, Ruby Dee.
That’s how it began . . . introduction of a thneed . . . have the population come
to take the thneed as a given, its ubiquity commonplace and accepted.
Turn that thneed into a Drone, to be detonated ad hoc, at will, the holder never
wiser of demise. . . .
Elliot Rodger, the young man who shot and killed several people in Isla Vista CA was reported by the news media to have had Asperger’s syndrome (AS). AS is then linked to mental illness because of the irrational acts of Rodger. This is a misapplied link because AS is not a mental illness. It is a neurological difference that affects behavior at different levels of severity. It is not a mental illness, but can be a comorbidity.
While only briefly looking at Rodger’s video, and noting that I am not a psychologist or other specialist in mental illness, he appeared to be suffering from narcissism, paranoia, and severe delusions of grandeur. He also appeared to have abandonment issues. His high degree of intelligence and verbal ability were the only indicators of possible AS observed.
If I didn’t have a moderate amount of knowledge and experience with AS, I might be led to believe that AS caused this latest shooting rampage. I would have been led to this conclusion by the irresponsible, partial reporting of the news media. This is a problem.
The psychiatrist I was referred to by my primary care physician’s assistant told me that all I needed do was say I was an Aspie and that would be sufficient to access services and benefits protected by the ADA (Americans with Disabilities Act). That isn’t true, and I knew it wasn’t true when she said it. The problem for me became why is this woman, who appears to be descended from the Indians from the subcontinent, telling me lies to my face? Does she really think I’m this stupid while she tells me how smart I am in that smarmy, condescending tone other Indians have affected with me. I try very hard to not give in to my prejudices, but I admit to having problems with Indians. At first, it was only with the males, but as I meet more and more women with superior attitudes, I’ve become wary of them, too. Dr. V. Malholtra is to blame. He would regularly compare students from my commuter college negatively with his USC students. Such a schmuck. Then, a four-month sabbatical on the subcontinent heightened my sense of distaste for many of those people. Full disclosure, you know.
Anyway, I visited the Department of Rehabilitation and told them I had AS. Of course, and as I expected, they requested proof. I told them I had none, have been trying to get a diagnosis since 2009, and that I have an appointment to request a second opinion coming up soon. I’ve also put in a call to the Disability Rights group for advocacy assistance. SOS all over the place.
I wouldn’t do this if certain things weren’t going terribly wrong in my life, things I seem unable to manage. I admit I’m not drooling and rubbing feces in my hair, but I am having difficulties that require intervention. Thought the Affordable Care Act was supposed to address these issues.
What I observe is that everyone is supposed to fit a predefined criteria. Individuals are not seen as individuals, but as interchangeable cogs in the healthcare machine. If you don’t have Cadillac insurance, you’re screwed. And it seems that even Cadillac insurance is no safeguard against being treated like a cog. Maybe a little more comfortable, but still not adequately taken care of.